I have the house to myself unexpectedly this weekend – or at least for half of it.
Friday was going to be my last day at work for two weeks anyway – I am scheduled to have keyhole surgery on my knee on Monday – and, as someone always ready for disaster, I had a list of things to do in case I was bedridden for weeks. I hope that won’t be the case, as the only driver in the family it will make the recuperative week away we have planned following the operation a touch difficult. The surgeon has assured me I will walk out of the surgery with nothing more than a small bandage (hiding the holes that he has made in my leg) and will be up and about in no time, provided he misses all major blood vessels and nerves.
My husband does shift work, which means a weekend off together is a thing of rarity but he and my list were due to be available this Saturday and Sunday. This all went south when he called me at work on Friday to let me know he had been told at very short notice that he would have to travel away overnight, leaving me home alone.
What to do with this unexpected turn of events? A whole house to myself, a weekend where I could toss the shopping list over my shoulder and go mad. It is at times like this that I envy people who can paint, or do pottery. They would be able to retreat to their studios in those baggy denim smocks artists always seem to wear (because they all have studios) and create. Granted, I am trying to write every day, and is it true that since I started this blog venture, I am woken up every morning by titles. Interesting that. I do not wake up every morning with a title, I am woken up by them, pulling my head by a fish hook out of unconsciousness where it wants to be and into 6am where I don’t.
So it was this morning. My weekend of mad singledom had so far involved resetting the house after my husband’s hurried departure (turning off lights, removing the corpse of a toasted sandwich from the grill and switching the iron off) walking the dogs, having the weekly dinner with my parents, then reading until lights out. My Saturday morning lie-in was rudely interrupted by the fish hook – actually I have that title as a draft right now, after reading a post from another blogger – but am not quite ready to commit the words to that one, and any plans that I might have made to go mad and travel into the city to visit the newly opened waterfront area, which has so far only distinguished itself only by causing traffic chaos in the city during its construction, were rudely disrupted by the weather. The summer here so far has been mad. Usually in Perth the sun comes out around November and resolutely refuses to budge until around March the following year. We occasionally get the odd week of humidity but for the most part the weather varies between hot, bloody hot, DON’T TOUCH THE AIRCON hot and, ‘so this is what it is like living on a lava flow’ hot.
I did manage to buy a swimming costume – an item left over from a previous to do list that I had failed to complete over Xmas, but so far that has been the highlight. My husband’s bus broke down on the way back to town , so I have had the entire day to myself, and apart from watching this week’s 99c movie (Big Eyes, by Tim Burton – not bad), that is all I have achieved on my go-mad, yeah-you-go-girl weekend of freedom: dinner with parents, dog walking and observations about the weather. It hardly qualifies me as a member of the Bloomsbury Set, does it?
Still, I am sitting here, the rain coming down beside the open window creating a marvellous distraction for the dogs, who, from a safe position at my feet, are scouring the backyard for frogs. I have The Best of Bowie playing, with an old Genesis album lined up next and even if I am not creating Pride and Prejudice just yet, I can feel ideas bubbling around in my head that I hope I will be able to flesh out a bit during my week off work while I recouperate with an ice pack on my leg. Small steps, or in my case next week, hobbles.